


Double Penetration

by mcshrug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: It's not porn, M/M, hi teen wolf fandom, there isn't actually double penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:06:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcshrug/pseuds/mcshrug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've survived lycanthropy, murderous man-lizards, undead uncles, and wolfsbane bullets, but Stiles' puns might just kill them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Penetration

**Author's Note:**

> hi teen wolf fandom! sup.
> 
> this is written after that episode with the pike. the one where derek had a pike in him the entire time. i don't know which one that was. season 3 right? was boyd alive? i don't know. he is in this, i guess. derek spat out a lot of blood and cora looked afraid the whole time, that's all i remember. i'm not very good at this fandom yet. i'll get there eventually, thanks mtv dot com's free episodes of all three seasons.
> 
> anyway. so. this is that episode, taken to it's logical conclusion.

            “If someone banged Derek while he had that pike in him,” says Stiles, “would it technically be double penetration?”

            Scott chokes on his burger.

            “Because, like, he’d be penetrated, and then _penetrated,_ you know? Two times. Double.”

            Isaac thumps Scott apathetically on the back. Scott spits out a piece of lettuce and continues to gag pathetically.

            “I’m just curious,” continues Stiles. “I didn’t mean to go there, but, like, man. If you say ‘impaled’ in the same sentence as ‘Derek’ then there’s only one way a guy’s brain can really go, right?”

            Scott is still choking, so Stiles turns to Isaac, who blinks over his milkshake and then says, “Um.”

            “I’m pretty sure there’s porn about this,” says Stiles. “Do you think there’s porn about this?”

            “Um,” says Isaac again. Scott takes a steadying gulp of iced tea and starts choking again.

            “Scintillating conversation as usual,” Stiles tells them both, and then gets up to throw his milkshake away. He trips on his way there and the waitress looks at him with poorly disguised pity.

            When he gets back, he’s pleased to see they’ve both recovered. “You’ve stopped choking!” he says, cheerfully, and then, “Unlike _Derek.”_

Isaac is out the front entrance before Stiles finishes the _oast_ in _spit-roasting._ Scott, once he’s clawed a chunk out of the booth with his usual Scott-like subtlety, makes Stiles pay his forgotten bill.

            Werewolves are jerks.

 

            “I have a question,” says Stiles.

            “I don’t care,” says Lydia.

            “It’s an important question,” says Stiles, and lowers his voice dramatically. “It’s about _sex.”_

Lydia rolls her eyes, using one hand to dig through her locker and the other to flap dismissively in his direction. “If it’s about you and sex, then I care less than I did when you first brought this up.”

            “No, it’s not about me, it’s about Derek. And sex.”

            “Stop making sex puns about Derek.”

            Damn. “Wait, have I already told you this one?”

            Lydia rolls her eyes and flips open her chem textbook, unfolding a sheet of paper from the pages and scanning it. “You’ve told me the one about double penetration and the one about _stretching the hole-“_

Stiles smiles fondly. “Oh yeah, that was a good one.”

            “-and Boyd says that yesterday in History your teacher said _impaled_ and you had a fit.”

            “I didn’t have a fit. It just gave me ideas for more puns.”

            “ _Stop making puns._ We get it, okay? He was impaled on a big thick pike all day long, we _get_ it.” And when Stiles chokes- “You’re so predictable, Stilinski. Now shoo.”

            “You haven’t heard my new one, though. It’s about stamina and-“

            Lydia closes her locker with a snap. “I’m walking away now,” she says, “and if you follow me I’ll scream and I won’t stop until someone calls the police.”

            “Hate for you to leave,” says Stiles, “love to-”

            Lydia smacks him in the head with her textbook, twice. “Stop talking,” she says. “Forever.”

            It’s probably good he never got to the punch line. The next hit probably wouldn’t have been to the head. Not _that_ head, anyway.

            Once you start making sex puns, it’s hard to stop.

 

            “Derek is going to _kill you,”_ hisses Scott.

            Stiles rolls over and scrubs one hand across his face. It comes away sticky with drool. “Scott,” he mumbles.

            “Seriously, dude.” There’s rustling on the other end of the phone. “Derek is going to _murder you dead.”_

Stiles squints one eye open and peers over at the alarm clock before hurriedly scrunching it shut again. “Scott,” he repeats. “It’s _two fucking thirty AM_ and Derek has _always_ wanted to kill me and _why are you calling again?”_

Scott hangs up.

            Stiles has the worst best friend ever.

 

            “Seriously, though,” says Isaac.

            He’s Stiles’ lab partner this quarter, which is something Stiles emphatically did _not_ volunteer for, because Isaac is a crazy bastard who has tried to kill Stiles’ friends on many occasions, and also, his jaw is slightly off-centered. Stiles doesn’t trust him at all, not with a vial of calcium chloride solution and most certainly not with his life, and he definitely did not come to this class looking forward to small talk between stations.

            “No,” says Stiles.

            “Stiles, I’m being serious,” says Isaac. In fairness, he does look like he’s going for a solemn face. A solemnly off-centered face. “Scott told me to tell you that you need to talk to Derek.”

            Stiles sets down the beaker and squints at him through the thick plastic of his lab goggles. “Talk to- Scott called me this morning to tell me Derek wanted to kill me. Didn’t he?” It’s possible that Stiles had dreamed it. Maybe Stiles had dreamed it.

            “Yes,” admits Isaac, crushing all of Stiles’ hopes in one off-centered syllable, “he does. Which is why you need to talk to him.”

            Stiles has the worst best friends’ best friend ever. “Gee, thanks for the advice, man. Go up to a murderous alpha werewolf who apparently wants to kill me and talk it out, really good stuff. Why does he want to kill me, anyway?”

            “This is such a nice class,” says Lydia, loud enough so that even Stiles can hear, from the table behind them. “ _Such_ a nice chemistry class, in Beacon Hills High School, where students can talk to each other in full hearing range of _everyone else.”_

Stiles should probably start being careful about how often he tosses around the phrase _murderous alpha werewolf._

 

            They corner him after class, Isaac bracketing him against a locker with his forearm while Allison points at him and Scott stands in the background, doing Scott things. Mainly, looking mildly concerned and faintly distressed.

            The whole pinned-by-Allison-and-Isaac would be kind of hot, really, in a twisted kind of way, but Scott is managing to ruin the vibe just by being there. Scott McCall, true alpha, major cockblock.

            “He found out about the puns,” says Allison.

            Stiles stares at her for a second, slightly open-mouthed. “What?”

            “He _found out about the puns,”_ Allison repeated. “And you need to go over there and say something before he kills us all.”

            Stiles is still coming up blank. “Puns? What-“

            Oh.

            Oh _shit._

“Yeah,” says Isaac.

            “ _How did he find out about the puns,”_ hisses Stiles.

            “Not me!” cries Scott, looking scandalized.

            “It was probably Isaac,” says Allison.

            Isaac shrugs.

            “ _Dude,”_ says Stiles. “That’s _not cool.”_

“Wasn’t thinking,” says Isaac, which isn’t an apology but is probably as close as Stiles will ever get from him, something that he should probably accept, seeing as it’s doubtful he’s going to make it out of today alive. “But that doesn’t matter. I left kind of quickly and I’m not sure what he’s planning. You have to go talk to him, because he knows where you live.”

            “But I don’t _want_ to,” whines Stiles.

            “Man up,” suggests Isaac.

            “Or die,” adds Scott. “A horrible, tragic death, and Derek will probably tell you all about his man pain before it happens.”

            It’s a lose/lose kind of situation.

 

            “You can’t maul me,” says Stiles.

            Derek looks at him.

            “Well, I mean, in general, our non-mauling policy has been going okay,” says Stiles. _Okay_ is a bit of a stretch, but he powers on regardless. “But right now? You can’t maul me. No mauling allowed.”

            Derek looks him up and down and then slowly curls his hand around the metal bar jammed into the wall and squeezes like he’s pretending it’s Stiles’ throat. Yes, his throat. That sliding motion, that’s the motion of someone strangling a throat. It’s not sexy. Not at all. Nope.

            “Why,” he says, eventually.

            Stiles flounders. “Um,” he says, and then, “So, I’ve been making some innuendos.”

            Derek looks at him and does a single pull-up. It’s possibly the most threatening pull-ups ever pulled up in the history of pull-ups. Stiles swallows, twice, and gives himself an internal pep talk. By the time he’s ready to try again, Derek is on his eighth bicep curl, although by this point it’s really more a blatant death threat than an exercise motion.

            “I heard you heard about the puns I made,” Stiles tries, “about the pike thing.”

            Derek glares at him. _Nine._ “Pike thing.”

            “Yeah, you know, um.” Stiles twists his hands in a gesture that’s supposed to be demonstrative but ends up just looking mildly obscene. “The _pike_ thing.”

            Derek watches his hands for a moment before looking back up to meet his eyes. _Ten, eleven, twelve,_ Jesus, now he’s just showing off, and why is he wearing a torn up tank top anyway? Everyone already knows he’s ripped, it’s not like he needs to assuage any doubts. “You mean the time I spent five hours hunched in my own house with a metal rod jammed through my body? The time my organs tried again and again to reknit themselves but couldn’t, so the fibers just tore and retore? The time I was in the most agonizing physical pain I’ve ever been in my life and I was too weak to even pretend to fight?”

            Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Oh-”

            “ _That_ time?” Derek does a few more, just to drive his point home- thirteenfourteenfifteen Jesus he’s going to _tear_ that thing down- before dropping to the ground and giving Stiles what would have been a smirk if Derek Hale’s mouth was built to curve that way. “Is _that_ what you mean, Stiles?”

            “I.” The conversation is veering dangerously off course. “Yes, I suppose. I was just, you know. Injecting a little, um, levity. Into the situation. But I came here to apologize. For that.”

            “I almost died.”

            Jesus, Derek is talkative today. “Um, yeah. Hence the, you know. Apology.”

            “Fine.” Derek turns away, tugging down the hem of his tank top; it rides right back up again as soon as he releases it. Stiles _could_ give him the benefit of the doubt and just assume it’d shrunk in the wash, but the fact of the matter is that Derek most likely doesn’t know what _the wash_ is, and he probably buys size M tank tops just to sexually frustrate everyone around him. “You can go now.”

            Stiles wrenches his eyes up from the dip of Derek’s spine into his jeans and looks up to meet his eyes. “I’m, um, really? That’s it?”

            Derek’s eyebrows dip towards his hairline. Derek’s eyebrows have their very own language. Stiles could teach a class. “What else did you come here for?”

            “I just thought there might be a bit more, you know.” Stiles mimes thrusting a knife into his belly, makes a mental note to never again _mime thrusting_ in front of Derek Hale, and takes a single step backwards toward the door. “Killing me.”

            Derek looks at him.

            “Righty-o, then,” says Stiles, and claps once. It’s startlingly loud in the empty loft. “Good talk, good talk! I’ll be, um. Seeing you!”

            He’s halfway out the door when Derek says, “You think about spit-roasting often, Stiles?”

            Stiles stops. Just, stops. Stops everything, not just movement and thinking but also _breathing,_ because, what the _fucking what._ “What?”

            Scott, from where he’s plastered against the opposite wall just outside the viewing range of the open loft door, waiting to be called in as reinforcement, mouths a frantic _no,_ mimes slashing a finger across his throat one or three times. Stiles gets the message, but really. _What._

“You heard me,” says Derek. His voice is perfectly level.

            Scott shakes his head furiously. Isaac, propped up against wall next to the door, fastidiously checks his nails.

            Stiles slowly turns away from them and shuts the door on Scott’s frantic face. “Um, sorry?”

            “You’re sexually frustrated,” says Derek easily, and Stiles’ mouth drops open, because, _what._ “But of course you are, you’re a teenager. So I’m asking you. You think about me being spit-roasted a lot, Stiles? You hear about me being split open and you think less _pike_ and more _cock?”_

There’s a crash from outside.

            “Holy shit,” says Stiles. “You just said _cock.”_

There’s another crash, a small yelping noise. Stiles needs to find new backup that doesn’t spasm every time someone mentions genitals.

            Derek looks at him.

            “Holy _shit,”_ says Stiles again. “Are you _coming onto me?”_ Something that sounds suspiciously like a muffled sob comes from outside. “Oh, shut _up,_ Scott.”

            “That’s Isaac, actually,” says Derek. “Scott already ran away. You need some better reinforcements, next time you attempt to gang up on me.”

            “Next time?”

            “You’re right,” says Derek. “Maybe you should keep it one on one from now on.”

            “Alright,” says Isaac from outside the door, “alright, I’m done.” There’s a scuffling noise, and then a dull thud, possibly from a werewolf fist being slammed into steel. “You guys are disgusting and I don’t support this relationship in any shape or form.”

            “Bye,” says Stiles, a little lamely.

            Isaac punches the door again and leaves.

            They stand there for a moment.

            “You’re a _really_ aggressive flirter,” says Stiles. It comes out a little disbelieving.

            Derek shrugs and turns away and, oh Jesus Christ, goes back to the pull up bar. “They were just questions, Stiles.”

            “ _Just questions-_ oh, for god’s sake, Derek, you don’t need to do any more pull-ups, it’s not even possible to get more bicep than you currently have, dude-“ Stiles blocks his way, which is something he would’ve been too terrified to do any other day that Derek hadn’t just said _cock._ “-how about we just _acknowledge_ this thing and, like, _talk_ about it for once?”

            Derek pushes his past him and does a single pull up, like an asshole, because, well. He’s an asshole. “Not big about talking,” he says.

            “Not buying that one, sorry,” says Stiles, “you said, like, five consecutive sentences to me earlier, during your rant thingy, which was really impressive, by the way.”

            Derek squints. “I said it to intimidate you.”

            “You said cock.”

            “That was later.”

            “You said _cock._ You _know what spit-roasting is.”_

“I have seen porn, you know.”

            Stiles’ mouth drops open. “You’ve seen _spit-roasting_ porn?”

            “I’m not having this conversation.”

            “Like, full on gay, or was there a girl involved? A sandwich, if you will-“

            “I’m throwing up,” says a voice, and they both look up to see Cora standing across the room, arms folded across her chest. “I’m literally throwing up, right now.”

            “No you’re not,” says Stiles. Both the Hales ignore him, but what else is new?

            “Cora, you’re supposed to be out,” says Derek. It’s only then that Stiles realize how _close_ they’re standing- less than an arm’s length away, and wow, Stiles can _feel_ the UST crackling between them.

            He says as much, and Cora says, “Projectile _vomiting,”_ even though she pretty obviously _isn’t,_ and then, “I got cancelled on, but I can leave.”

            “Do,” says Derek.

            “You’re not allowed to have sex on my bed,” says Cora.

            “ _Dude,”_ says Stiles.

            “Go,” says Derek.

            “Dude,” says Stiles again. “The UST is still very, you know. U.”

            Cora rolls her eyes and sweeps out of the loft, slamming the door behind her.

            There’s a pause.

            “I don’t even know how this is going to work,” says Stiles. “You’re not very hip. I bet you don’t even know what UST means.”

            “It stands for unresolved sexual tension,” says Derek, and then they’re kissing.

            It’s hot and hard and fast, and Stiles barely gets two hands up to cup Derek’s face in his palms- the stubble is rough against the pads of his thumbs, and this is Derek’s own fault for talking about internet lingo but all Stiles can think is _hyfr hyfr hyfr-_ before Derek slams him up against the wall next to the door. One hand grips tight on the back of his neck, and the other- Stiles makes a surprised noise against Derek’s mouth, parting his lips to the slick drag of Derek’s tongue, because that is _definitely_ his ass-

            The UST is on its way to being RST.

            “Is that a thing?” Stiles pants, later. They’re on Derek’s bed- Stiles had said, “Let’s go to Cora’s, because she said not to,” and Derek’s eyebrows had said “What the hell, we’re not doing the do in my sister’s room, you sick bastard”- and Derek is shirtless and so is Stiles and there’s so much skin, mmph, a lot of skin. Derek’s abs are fake, he’s pretty sure. He needs to investigate to make a conclusion.

            “RST is not a thing,” says Derek, but it comes out as more of a whine.

            Stiles grins from where his tongue is currently tracing the grooves in Derek’s eight-pack. Maybe it’s even a ten-pack. More investigation is needed. “Mmph,” he says, and goes back to work.

            RST is totally a thing.

 

            Scott is visibly distressed at school the next day.

            “I can’t believe you guys got together over _sex puns,”_ he says. His eyebrows are drawn together, and he kind of looks like he’s about to start crying.

            “Turns out he wasn’t actually mad,” says Stiles. “You guys totally misread him, some betas you are.”

            “I’m not Derek’s beta,” says Scott.

            “No, no, I completely understand. It’s very easy to misread sexual tension as murderous anger.”

            “Stiles,” says Scott. He sounds miserable.

            Stiles eyes him over his turkey wrap. “Keep complaining and I’ll start talking about that meatball sandwich you’re eating.”

            Scott looks down at it in horror. “It’s a _sub,”_ he says.

            “You do realize you’re making it worse, right?”

            Scott stays silent for the rest of lunch.

            It’s a beautiful day.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading friends!
> 
> i made a tumblr for fic (mcshrug.tumblr.com) which you can check out if you feel so inclined! it's empty at the moment but you can fill it up. [sex pun]


End file.
